


The Bishop and the Knight

by mixgoldenphoenix



Series: Try Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxiety, Homelessness, Loss of Animal, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, other characters to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-03 01:03:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1725488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mixgoldenphoenix/pseuds/mixgoldenphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gadreel begins his life as a human. Living in a homeless shelter in Minneapolis, he assumes everything that awaits him will be amazingly...domestic. That is, until an old brother arrives and reminds him that he's not off the board. Not yet. Metatron's still in the game. But... Who is he playing against?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Human

**Author's Note:**

> The chapters are most likely going to read like a lot of little, interconnected drabbles. But, that's kind of how I'm writing this.

Living as a human was trifling.

Contrary to all the warnings Castiel had given him about what bodily changes and emotional changes he would go through, he found the actual _living_ part to be the hardest to grasp.

Well, the _making_ a living part.

His body took care of itself, for the most part. It told him when he was hungry, when he had to relieve himself, when he was cold or hot, and when he was tired. He knew how to give it what it wanted. He learned what it was to be full and to stop eating. He learned how to 'hold it,' but that, sometimes, he could not. He learned that some places were great for sleeping and some most definitely were not. Hard surfaces being the top of the list for discomfort. Loud noises, too, would keep him from falling asleep. He even learned how to shave and brush his teeth, thanks to a disbelieving housemate at the shelter.

No, these things were easy.

 _Everything else_ was hard.

Minneapolis was a gigantic city. He knew there were jobs out there waiting for him. However, to get a job, he needed a home. To get a home, he needed money. To get money, he needed a job. The very concept of making a living seemed incomprehensible to him. A vicious circle. A snake eating its own tail.

Yet, the shelter swore to him that they could help. Their mission was to grant homeless people and their families a way to sustain themselves. Outside. In the _real world_ , as they called it.

They had sessions for people. Taught them how to write resumes, fill out job applications, and respond appropriately in job interviews. He could stay as long as it took for him to support himself on his own. They had allowed thousands of others to do the same since their opening decades ago.

Gadreel did not much care for their flowery speeches about their history, or how they had just recently obtained the ten-floored building they had. Yet…he did like the shelter. And the people who ran it. The people who volunteered to help those less fortunate than them.

These people would cook. They would read to the young children. They would tutor the older ones-help them with their school work. He liked this side of humanity. It was a worthy cause. Selfless. Something he desperately wanted to be himself.

So, inspired by these humans, Gadreel decided to follow their example. Though it did not grant him money, he volunteered to help around the shelter, too. At first, the people who ran the establishment did not want him to. They said it would be asking too much of those that stayed there. This was meant to be charity; he did not have to work off any debts. He persisted, however. He wanted to support himself. He wanted to help others. It only took two days for them to finally relent to his wishes.

He could not cook - he did not know how - but he could do other things. He could clean the floors and furniture with the janitors. He could wash the dishes with the dishwashers. He could occupy the children with books and games.

He was not quite good at the games, but they seemed to appreciate when he read to them. The shelter came with its own library, full of books that had been donated from all over the area. There was something for both the adults and the children on the shelves.

The children's books were always the smaller, more colorful ones. They were not just colorful on the outside, either. The inside always contained fun pictures that helped describe the story. He probably appreciated them just as much as the children. He understood that human stories typically held messages within them. Themes, morals, that he was supposed to learn from. However, he did not always understand what they were telling him, and his imagination was still a work in progress. The pictures helped with that.

He was well-liked by the children. A fact that warmed his heart a little. They liked him, trusted him, and would even ask for his help if they needed it. It was a nice change from how he was used to being treated.

Despite whatever enjoyment the tasks he was given brought him, whenever he returned to his small room at night, he would remember that all of this was temporary. What he was doing was not truly _making a living_. That, one day, he would have to leave and work - fall into the monotonous regime that humans often found themselves in.

Trifling.

But, he was _living_. So…it was a start. A beginning. He would worry about the rest later. Cross that bridge when he got to it, as the saying went. After all, he was only human. Why not think as they did?


	2. Viva La Vida

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Black or White Knight? Missionaries in a foreign field.

He was beginning to loathe candy wrappers.

They were everywhere.

At first, he had thought nothing of them. The kids liked candy. Something about sweets just drew them in, and the volunteers would often hand such pieces to the children just to see them smile and be happy. He had done it himself on occasion. However, when they started to increase in number, in frequency of which he came across them, _and_ they showed up in places they had no reason to be…

The first few had been on the floor in a hallway he was vacuuming. Small, gold wrappers in a pile of about three or four. Knowing the vacuum cleaner should not run over them, he had picked them up and pocketed them without a thought. He threw them away in the small cart the janitors used to hold all of their cleaning supplies and trash bags.

The next few had been in the bathroom. He had entered a stall to clean it and was surprised to find a similar grouping on the back of the toilet. He frowned at them, only a faint feeling of suspicion nagging at the back of his brain, but he treated them the same as he had the others.

The third batch had been haphazardly strewn across a couch downstairs in the lounge late at night. Long after the children had all gone to bed, what with it being a school night. He gave these an even deeper frown. Perhaps he should address the littering?

He did, of course. No one he questioned knew who was leaving the wrappers. He never got around to asking everyone. The shelter was a huge place. It would take him days to search for the culprit.

The fourth encounter had been more personal.

A group of teenagers had found a game. They called it a board game, yet it was not played on a board. Instead, it used a mat that was placed on the floor. _Twister_ was the name.

He hadn't wanted to play with them. For one thing, he did not see the appeal. Contorting his body into any way the little 'spinner' commanded him to sounded ridiculous. Not really his 'definition of fun.' For another, he was much bigger than they were. He did not want to accidentally injure one of them.

Still, they persisted. He said fine. After removing their shoes, they began to play the odd game.

Gadreel found it easy, at first, to reach across the entire mat. But, when they wound up crossing each other and hunting for spots - basically becoming a human knot of limbs - he found it _not_ so easy. He was the second person 'out,' having to roll to the side to avoid crushing young Alicia. That gave the teens a good laugh. He'd been less thrilled.

Accepting his defeat, Gadreel had dismissed himself from the group. He had retrieved his boots from where they sat nearby. He had placed his foot within his right shoe. And, then, he had heard the now well-known crinkle of candy wrappers. Removing his shoe, he spied two more golden wrappers. One was stuck to his sock. His mood worsened.

The latest batch of wrappers were found in an even more personal space.

They were in his bed, under the covers, waiting for him to draw back the sheets.

He stared at them for a good minute, his rage at whoever this trickster was reaching its boiling point. Such emotions were only exacerbated because he had no idea who the culprit was. Still. But if he _ever_ found out… They would not like him.

* * *

 

He offered his services to the cleaning staff, again, after he had finished one of his classes. (That day, he had learned about resumes.) The tables in the dining room needed to be cleaned, as lunch had just been served, and the more hands they had the faster the job would be finished.

He took the cleaning supplies he needed from the cart - a spray bottle full of chemicals and a long rag - with a brief form of greeting to Mathias, then went to work.

He had cleaned seven tables before he was interrupted. He hadn't seen the man approach, he had been so focused on the mind-numbing circles he was making with the cloth. All he had seen was a pale hand grasp a chair across from him. He paused in his work as his eyes traveled from the hand, up the length of a black jacket, to the clean-shaven face of a man with honey-colored hair and amber eyes.

The man had pulled the chair out from under the table and sat down by the time Gadreel had observed him. He frowned in distaste as the man propped his feet up on the seat of another chair across from him. He clenched his jaw when he noticed the stranger was smiling smugly at him.

This was no homeless man he was dealing with. They had the common decency and desire to take care of what little they had and what they were given. Only an outsider would be so rude.

The stranger reached into his pocket, the sound of crinkling reaching Gadreel's ears.

"Y'know," he smirked, pulling a small piece of candy from his jacket pocket. "I remember having a job just like this. Some of the people were just _so inconsiderate_ to the pains I went through to clean up their messes."

Gadreel was too focused on the golden wrapper the stranger was rolling into a tiny ball to appreciate the implications in the stranger's voice. Like a hawk, he stared at the wrapper as the man moved his hand to drop it onto the table. There he left it, tilting his head at Gadreel with the same smirk still on his face.

Gadreel moved his eyes from the wrapper to the stranger's, glaring heatedly. It wasn't just that he had finally found the ass that had been littering the shelter that caused his rage to boil over. It was also that he had finally found the man who had invaded his personal space. The man that had, essentially, been stalking him. What else could the stranger have been doing to be able to leave the infernal pieces of plastic in his shoes and in his _sheets_?

The man whistled lowly and said, "Chill, bro. Hypertension's a killer."

"I am not your brother," Gadreel growled. "Now-"

Before he could finish his command for the other to vacate the area before he removed him himself, the stranger threw his head back and laughed. _Laughed_. At _him_. A laugh that shook his whole body as he clapped. Gadreel barely resisted the urge to throw the rag in his hand at the man's face.

"Aah." The man smirked, leveling his head to look up at him, "That's funny. Because I _am_ your brother. Or should I say was? Hmm."

Gadreel opened his mouth to respond with…something. The thought never really formed, for the stranger's words finally sunk into his mind. He inhaled deeply. This man was no man. He was an angel.

Castiel had promised him - given his word - that no angels would pursue him. That, should an angel come to him for whatever reason, he would be alerted ahead of time.

Gadreel trusted Castiel. His brother would not betray him on this. Whatever angel sat before him, he was not here under Castiel's orders.

He could be in danger. The people around him could be in danger. Across the room, Mathias was staring at them, concern and suspicion clear on his face. Gadreel could tell it was only a matter of seconds, no more than a minute, before he came to ask what was wrong, if there was anything he could do for Gadreel, and that was the last thing that needed to happen. Gadreel smiled awkwardly at the janitor, nodding his head to signal it was okay. Mathias hesitatingly went back to his work.

Gadreel turned his attention back to the angel before him.

"Who are you?" He seethed. "What is your purpose here? If you harm any of the humans-"

" _Relax,_ " the angel drawled, rolling his eyes. "If I wanted to hurt any of your precious flock, I woulda done it by now. As for the other two questions? _Guess_. More fun for me that way."

"Who. Are. You?"

The stranger sighed dramatically.

"Fine. Be a drag. I'll give ya a hint: You sprayed my 'horn' all over the place."

Gadreel felt some of the fight leave his tense body, but he still kept his suspicions. Yes, he knew the angel before him. He knew him quite well. (The only reason he had not recognized him was because this was the first time he had seen his Vessel.) However, that meant nothing. Not these days.

"Gabriel," he acknowledged.

"Got it in one."

"What are you doing here?"

"…You were supposed to guess that part, too, but I can already tell some of your intelligence eeked out of your brain when you Fell, so, I'll let it slide. Wouldja mind sitting down? Your hurting my neck lookin' up at ya."

"Angels do not-"

" _Sit._ "

Gadreel worked his jaw, looked over his shoulder at Mathias, and decided that humoring Gabriel might be in everybody's best interest, even if it prevented him from doing the job he had been given. He threw the rag down onto the table, placed the cleaner beside it, and took a chair across from Gabriel.

"Better," the Archangel commented.

He pulled his feet from the chair they were in to sit normally. Then he leaned forward, hands clasping together on the table in front of him.

"I'm the Messenger, Gadreel," Gabriel began. "Always have been, always will be. Yes, even when I was a Trickster."

Gadreel frowned, "Trickster?"

"Demi-god that punishes assholes. Likes sweets."

"The wrappers?"

Gabriel shrugged, "Couldn't resist the joke."

"Jokes are typically only funny if all parties understand them."

"Eh. Anyway, back to what I was sayin'. I'm the Messenger. So, naturally, I'm here to drop a little truth bomb on ya, bro. The message reads as follows: You're screwed."

Gadreel stared at Gabriel; the Archangel stared right back. He had been in the shelter long enough to know that was an expression to describe someone being in a situation they would not like, and one that often proved disastrous. What Gadreel could not be sure about was if the Messenger's words were a threat against him or not.

"Brother, I do not understand what you mean. Screwed how? Am I in danger?"

"Oh, that would be an understatement, buddy boy." Gabriel leaned back in his chair. "Y'see, you were supposed to die in that cell. I didn't write the rules, _Metatron_ did. He played you like a fiddle and set you up to be the best damn martyr of angelkind. The tragic hero that finally found redemption through death. _That's how he wrote it._ Only… You. Didn't. Die."

Gadreel shifted anxiously, "And am I right to assume you are here to remedy that fact, brother? That you are nothing more than Metatron's _knight_ come to do his bidding? Clean up his mess, as you said?"

Gabriel's eyes glinted darkly for only a second before the jovial mask slipped back over them. He shrugged with one shoulder, refusing to break eye contact with Gadreel.

"We all have our parts to play," he replied. "But, no. I'm not here to kill you. Not yet. I'm sure that'll come later. You'd be surprised how far Metatron wrote ahead."

"That makes no sense," Gadreel muttered. "Castiel broke the Angel Tablet. That should have broken the spell on his scripts."

"It doesn't work that way. Those pages still hold power. All he has to do is white out a few lines, add some more, and you're six feet under, pal."

"He is in prison."

" _He wrote ahead,_ genius _._ He planned this from the jump. You seriously think I'd be sitting here telling you all of this if he wasn't still a _threat?_ "

Gadreel reached into his pants pocket for the cell phone Castiel had given him shortly before he had arrived at the shelter. He had to call him. Or Sam. Someone. He had to warn them.

Before he could reach the device, however, there was the sound of a snap. The feeling of the phone pressing against his leg disappeared. He panicked when his fingers hit nothing but more pocket. Snapping his head up from the table, he saw Gabriel waving the device at him as he held it between his fingers. The Archangel did not look amused.

"No," the Messenger said, placing the phone near him on the table. "Touch it again and it goes bye-bye, and you lose all of your outside contacts. No more Cas, no more Sam. Just you. Alone. Waiting to die."

Gadreel swallowed his fear.

"We have to warn them, Gabriel," he spoke calmly. "It is our mission."

"No, I'm _doing_ my mission, Gadreel." Gabriel snapped.

"To condemn me to death?" Gadreel hissed. "To condemn _all_ of humanity to the wiles of some-some two-bit _hack?_ Metatron is not God! Whatever orders he has given you-"

Gabriel smirked, yet it the look he gave Gadreel this time to accompany it was not mischievous. It was almost predatory.

"Who says I'm here on _his_ orders?"

Gadreel faltered in his tirade.

There were those implications again.

No. No, that was impossible. God had left. God was gone. He would not interfere now. …Would he?

Gabriel could see right through him.

"Think about it," the Archangel began. "Why? _How?_

"You're still on the board, Gadreel. And there'll come a time, sooner rather than later, when you're going to be moved.

"You can't tell the other pawns of their roles. That's against the rules. That lets the enemy know of our strategy. _You cannot tell Castiel or the Winchesters of Metatron's plan_. Hell, I can't even tell _you_ all the juicy bits. The only thing you can do is sit back, wait, and try not to die."

"I thought that was my fate," he replied disdainfully.

"That's _Metatron's_ fate for you. God's, obviously, is something else. Look, Gadreel. I'm a double agent. I don't wanna be, it's just kinda _written_ that way. You're not always gonna be able to trust me."

"I see. And how do I know when you are 'trustworthy' or not?" He quipped.

"If I walk like a robot, and I beep like a robot, then I'm a damn robot, and _you_ better head for the hills. Because I won't be able to stop the script. I tried once. Freakin' _Castiel_ had to break it. On a continuity error, of all things!" Gabriel chewed on his bottom lip. "Though, I'm kinda glad that happened, even if it was dumb as dirt. Didn't really wanna end up dead again. Kinda sucks."

Gadreel took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His mind was swimming in too many thoughts. He had just wanted to live his life as painstakingly boring and normal as ordinary humans did. He would have been happy to never stumble across the supernatural again. Angels notwithstanding, of course. Yet… Here was Gabriel, doing his job in announcing the heavy burdens of fate special humans got to carry.

"What do I do?" He asked the Archangel, defeated.

"For now? Nothing. And I mean nothing. Don't you even _think_ about calling the Terrible Trio about this. Just _live,_ Gadreel. Read to the kids, find a job, get a house. Clean toilets."

Gadreel glared at Gabriel.

"Fine," Gadreel snapped. "And _you_ will stop leaving wrappers everywhere. It is _not_ funny."

The Cheshire cat grin Gabriel gave him as he wiggled his eyebrows clearly told Gadreel that he thought otherwise. Gabriel faded out of existence before his very eyes. Of course, Gadreel startled at this. He had heard no wing beats, however. Gabriel must have been using a mirage. He remembered that had been a favorite trick of the Archangel's before Gadreel had… Before Eden.

Quickly looking over his shoulder, he noticed Mathias still cleaning the tables on the other side of the room. His back was turned towards them. He had not seen Gabriel's disappearance. Gadreel hoped the older man would not question him about his 'friend.' He had no idea what lies to tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that's right. Gadreel played Twister. Because reasons.


	3. Little Lion Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small friend only proves that history is wont to repeat itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It hurts...

Gabriel's words haunted him for days after the Archangel's visit.

He hated the feeling of dread that hung heavily in his chest. He hated the feeling of being watched. He hated waiting. He hated the uncertainty over his fate.

He was used to fear and anxiety, but he still loathed the emotions. He loathed that it was always his family that made him feel them. For once, he wanted to feel something else. Happiness. The happiness that Abner had told him to hold onto no matter what. And he thought he had set himself on the path to finding it, until the rug was ripped out from under his feet.

He mourned Abner. But, it was his fault his once-friend was dead. He really had no business mourning him. He was not allowed that luxury - he would not forgive himself for that.

Despite his turmoil, the world moved on. He had to either sit, wallow in his misery, and let everything pass him by…again. Or, he had to get up and move.

He chose to move. To live, as Gabriel had commanded him to. Put one foot in front of the other until he found his way back to the path he sought. He could only pray his Father would not let him fall down again. He was already trying so hard to stay upright. Do not let him fall again.

* * *

The next Monday night, Gadreel was in the kitchen. Not cooking, of course. He still had not been given the opportunity to learn how. No, he was on dishwashing duty after dinner. Or, he had been, until someone had requested he take out the trash. Tuesday was pick-up day for the big dumpsters that were outside.

At first, he had hesitated when Cynthia had given him the order to stop what he was doing and take care of the bags. He always got this nagging voice in the back of his head that said it was wrong to stop a task halfway through. Yet, she told him it was fine. She would take up his slack on the dishes. It was just that she was a small woman and she had a bad back. It would be much easier for him to lift and carry the heavy trash bags to the dumpster and throw them in. At least her hands still worked.

Gadreel nodded to her, ignoring that voice, and stepped aside for her to take his place. She smiled at him and thanked him. He gave her a polite smile in return and told her it was nothing. Cynthia was a nice woman. A motherly type.

The kitchen's trash cans were next to the double doors that led to the parking lot. These cans were much larger than the ones the homeless had in their rooms. It made sense, of course. More space for more refuse. But there were many of them, and he knew the bags were going to be heavy. And gross. He was not really looking forward to his new task.

He did the task anyway. Who was he to complain? Everyone did it with little to no gripe.

On his last run to the dumpster outside, a bag in each hand, Gadreel heard a meow. He thought nothing of it. Strays were common around the area. He threw the bags into the dumpster and closed the lid. When he turned back towards the shelter, the meowing started up again. One cry after the other. From his feet.

Frowning, Gadreel looked down. There was a calico kitten pacing around him, looking up and whining for his attention. He was not sure what it wanted. It looked big enough to not need milk, so if it was asking for food… Well, he had none. Not on him. And it felt wrong to dig through the dumpster for possibly tainted food to hand to the tiny creature. If it wanted to be petted, he could oblige.

And that's when he heard the far-distant roll of thunder. Looking up from the kitten, he scanned the skies. It was dark and hard to see past the street lights, but he could smell the rain. They _were_ due for another storm. It had been too hot and muggy recently. Gadreel looked back down at the kitten still meowing at his feet.

Cats typically did not like water, right? Not the small ones.

However, the shelter did not allow animals.

He tried to convince himself that it was fine. The kitten had plenty of places to hide to keep out of the rain. He was being silly to ponder this one little kitten's future so extensively.

Yet, the more he stared down at the thing, the more he took in its nearly spotless coat and healthy weight _and desperate cries_ , the more his resolve to abandon the creature crumbled. Surely this was someone's cat. Someone who had left it outside, perhaps to train it to be an outdoor cat, and it had run off. Perhaps it was lost and merely seeking human comfort. Perhaps it had never once been in the midst of a thunderstorm.

Against his better judgment, he caved. With a quick look around the parking lot and seeing that no one was around to watch him, he bent down and scooped up the kitten. It ceased its cries once his hands wrapped around it. It was purring.

Gadreel did not have time to feel happy about that. He did not want to be caught, after all. As quickly as he could, he unzipped his hoodie, stuffed the kitten inside his clothing, and pulled the zipper back up. He walked as quickly as he could back to the double doors, hand firmly holding the kitten in place as it squirmed against his torso. He prayed it would not make a sound when he entered the building.

He passed through the kitchen as quickly as he could. Cynthia called out to him, asking him if he was alright. He shouted an excuse of needing to use the restroom, that something he had eaten had not agreed with him. It was the first thing to pop into his mind that would explain his haste and why he was holding his stomach.

No one else stopped him on his journey back to his room. He took the stairs instead of the elevator. _No one_ took the stairs, so he would be safe from curious glances there.

By the time he finally reached the door to his room, the kitten had painfully clawed its way up his chest. It was almost to his shoulder, its head in danger of poking out of the top of his hoodie. He fumbled in his haste to open the door, trying to push the kitten back down in case someone left their room and spotted him - spotted _it_.

He nearly slammed his door shut behind him in his haste.

"Hold on," he chided the kitten.

Reaching into his hoodie, he grabbed the creature gently and pulled it free. It shook its head, its fur all akimbo. Gadreel placed it on his bed, where it immediately began to roam around. It was a female, he noted.

Watching the kitten explore her surroundings, he realized his mistake. Housing the animal would be one thing. But he had no food for her, and certainly no litter box. Perhaps he had bitten off more than he could chew.

* * *

It did not take him long to get attached to the kitten.

She was always climbing on him whenever he sat down long enough, curling up into a tiny ball to purr and languidly twitch her tail.

Sometimes, she would even try climb him when he wasn't sitting. Gadreel admired her determination. He did not, however, approve of the claws piercing his jeans and digging into his flesh. Cat scratches were amazingly painful for how little damage they did. Like paper cuts. Oh, how he loathed paper cuts.

She would sleep with him at night, too, whenever she wasn't chasing one of Gabriel's candy wrappers across the floor. She would curl up behind his legs or beside his head. Oftentimes he would be awoken by her pawing at his face just before dawn. At first, he was confused as to why she would do that. It took him about two days to remember the circadian rhythm of cats. She was hungry, and she was letting him know.

Her food consisted of whatever meat products he could smuggle away from his own food. As for litter… He still had none. He did, however, manage to make a makeshift cat box out of a cardboard, tomato box lid and some dirt he…may or may not have stolen. From various potted plants around the shelter.

He was not proud of his theft. In fact, he was very ashamed. And it most certainly had been one of the strangest things he had ever done. Yet, the kitten needed a place to use the restroom or else she would have ruined the thin carpet in his room. He could not risk that damage. Choices were made.

Gadreel came to call her Eden.

Because very few things in his life had managed to bring a genuine smile to his face as often as the Garden had.

* * *

 

He had her for a week.

A week of spending a majority of his time in his room, making excuses to the staff and curious residents for his absence - his lack of a desire to work. A week of lying about why he was smiling so much lately, why he seemed happier than normal. A week of being amused by the off-the-wall guesses they would whisper when they thought he could not hear him.

A week, before he saw the uniformed man and woman walking towards the elevator carrying a small cage. Before his heart leapt into his throat as he ran to the stairs, racing up them two at a time to reach his room. Because he knew. _He knew_. But that did not stop the feelings that assaulted him when he saw two of the staff waiting in front of his opened door, a door he had locked to prevent this sort of thing, a wriggling Eden being held by Lindsey.

Patrick was the one that saw him first. Patrick was the one that called out to him as he started to walk towards Gadreel. But Gadreel did not hear him. Because across the hall were the ones that had come to take Eden away from him. Because he had turned away, just for a few minutes, but that was all it took. A few minutes of inattentiveness and cocky surety was ever all it took for him to lose the thing he cherished most.

He barely registered their frowns, Patrick's slowing steps, and Lindsey asking him what was wrong.

Because he couldn't breathe.

There were tears in his eyes, his chest was too tight, and _he couldn't breathe._

He did not notice when he reached out for the wall. He did not notice when he leant against it and slid to the floor. When he sat, curled in on himself, with his hands fisted into his hair. No, the only thing he noticed were his thoughts.

Eden. Serpent. Failure. His one charge and he had put it in danger. Isolation. Loneliness. Regret. He should not have grown attached. It only ever made him blind. _Fear._

Gadreel jerked back when he felt someone touch him. It was only Lindsey, telling him to calm down, to breathe, that she was worried he would hurt himself if he didn't calm down.

He couldn't.

His mind was as poisonous as the Serpent. It turned on him - hissed about how he would never have his happiness. A week of lies was what he had had. That he should stop moving. That he _should_ just sit and wallow in his misery as the world passed him by. He was good at that. He had done it for thousands upon thousands of years. What was another fifty?

Nothing good would ever come to him.

Or anything he laid his hands on.

Like Eden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did this to myself...


	4. Bleeding Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mind is a wreck and needs an anchor. Does it find one?

Gadreel felt himself grow hateful.

He did not like feeling that way. He did not _want_ to feel that way. But that was what he was coming to feel towards the humans that surrounded him.

They only wanted the best for him. They only wanted him to be happy. They could not understand why he was so _depressed_ lately. What had happened to him in the past to make him behave the way he had? The way he was? Was it another cat that he had lost? Could he just not accept the loss? _What's wrong, Joe?_

Well, for one, his name was not Joe. Joe was dead. Joe was dead _because of him_. He had failed his Vessel. He had failed both of his Vessels.

He wanted them to stop calling him the name of a dead man.

Dead men. Dead angels. That was all he was anymore. For once in his long life, he just wanted to be called by his true name.

It was tarnished and it was horrible, but it was _his_. _He_ had tarnished it. Let him accept that guilt.

But he couldn't. Because he was Joe here. And Joe had not been in the Garden. Joe could not say that his 'breakdown' had been because of a trigger. One word: Eden. That he had turned his back for a mere moment and lost everything. That humanity had lost more.

He could not say that, though the loss of the kitten did affect him, it was the loss of _Innocence_ that he mourned. That he wished, above all, that humanity had never suffered _because of him._

And because he could not say these things, because he could not admit the truth to anyone, his suffering grew worse. It shifted from remorse to disdain. For every person who asked him to talk about it, his distaste grew.

I cannot tell you. I cannot. _I cannot._

Stop asking!

He knew he was in the wrong to feel the way he was. Yet, that only increased his frustration. This time at himself.

It was a never-ending cycle, his emotions. The tiniest thing would set him off. So, when not dragged into the shelter's little _counseling_ room, he would barricade himself in his room. Ironically, despite the missing Eden, he felt better there than anywhere else.

Ironically, _solitude_ was what he craved.

And he got his wish, for the most part. Whenever he left his room, a stern glare was all that was needed to turn unwanted gazes away from him - turn them to the floor, the walls, a piece of lint stubbornly clinging to a shirt.

No one sat beside him at breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Few had tried, the first couple of days after Eden had been taken from him. However, since he had answered their questions in short sentences and with a progressively biting tongue, they had given up trying to be social with him.

Even the children could pick up on his constant, foul mood. They did not ask him to read to them anymore, they did not ask for help on homework, and games were most certainly out of the question. He felt guilty for that - he did not want them thinking _they_ were the cause of his behavior - but he could not find it within himself to approach them. He did not trust his temper to not find fault with them as well. It was better to stay away.

So, when, on Wednesday, a young Hispanic man sat down opposite of him at his table, Gadreel was less than pleasantly surprised.

He gave this boy his well-practiced glare for a solid ten seconds. A glare that went unseen, for the young man was too busy spearing some potatoes onto his fork.

They were bland potatoes, Gadreel knew. He had had some himself. But that did not stop the other from scarfing them down.

Gadreel frowned, partly at the unwanted companionship, but mostly because of the boy's behavior. He had seen such behavior before. From the housemates that had gone without decent food for a period of time. Housemates that feared it would be taken from them. Housemates that feared it would be the last meal they would receive.

Gadreel's curiosity quickly smothered his petty dislike. And it was quickly morphing into concern, despite his best efforts to keep it from doing so. He could not afford to care again, he told himself. Yet, his heart did not seem to be listening.

"Hungry?" He asked, aiming for nonchalance.

The young man scoffed, casting him a brief, scathing look before gathering more food onto his fork. Placing the food into his mouth, he answered.

"Does it look like I'm starving to you?"

He was being defensive. Biting with his words. Gadreel was familiar with defensive. All too familiar.

"Looks can be deceiving," he replied.

"Man, what's it to ya?" The boy snapped. For all his aggravation, he had yet to look up from his food. "I said I wasn't starving and I'm not. Just got some place to be."

"And is that place going to flee before you finish your meal?"

The boy's fork clattered against his plate loudly. He shifted his weight in his chair, clenched his jaw, and glared at Gadreel.

Finally. Confrontation was more tolerable to avoidance. Confrontation brought with it a chance for answers. It would settle Gadreel's curiosity. It was a release.

"The hell is with you?" The stranger asked. "Man can't eat in peace around here?"

Gadreel raised his brow at that.

"Apparently not, considering. I mean, I _was_ here first…"

The kid laughed, "Yeah, okay. I'm sure I was interrupting your little staring contest with your plate. That little scowl of yours really keyed me in on just how _preoccupied_ you were. I'm sure if I hadn't come along, you'd be arguing with your green beans right now. So, so sorry I prevented that from happening."

"You are correct; it really is a shame. Instead, here I sit arguing with you."

The young man frowned, "You think you're cute, don't ya?"

"I think I'm adorable. Do _you_ think I'm cute?"

When the boy rolled his eyes, Gadreel prided himself in his small victory. It was fun, a nice distraction, to get under the other's skin. The boy dropped his head into his hands, elbows on the table, and sighed. When he sat back up, his demeanor had changed. He looked tired. Gadreel understood that, too.

"Look, man, I don't want any trouble."

"Trouble is the last thing I'm trying to give you."

"Then what the hell is with this-" the boy waved his hand in gesture, "- _this?_ Why are you in my ass?"

"Interesting choice of phrase," Gadreel mused before continuing, "but I'm not trying to be _in your ass._ I merely asked if you were hungry. You are not the first person I have seen acting as you were.

"And, there is nothing to be ashamed of for such a thing. Or for whatever circumstances led you here. You need not consume your food as quickly as you were. No one will take it from you. Not here."

The boy chuckled once.

"Yeah, well, no one was taking it from me at home, either," he bit. He picked his fork back up and mumbled, "They just took _me_ from the _home_."

Gadreel frowned, "Why?"

"None of your business, that's why."

"Fair enough." He stood from the table and pushed his tray towards the boy.

The young man frowned at it.

"Dude, I don't want your charity!"

"It 's not charity," Gadreel told him with a shrug. "You have ruined my appetite, it would be a shame to waste food, and I have some place to be."

The boy gave him a look. The one that often went along with, 'What is wrong with you?' Gadreel shrugged it off and left.

His mind was turning again. Walking itself in circles.

It went over his desire to know more about the young man's situation. He looked to be in his late teens, why had he been forced from his home at such a young age? What about his parents? Did he have any, or was he a child of 'the System?'

It went over the outcome of his last desire to help someone. Some _thing._ How everything he had ever attempted ended in some form of tragedy. It told him it was best to leave things alone.

It went over their banter. The emotions he had read in the other. The bravado, the anger, and the hopelessness.

His mind told him he could help and he told it he could not.

All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel…

...And he didn't even know the boy's name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel that I should re-iterate that this is being written very...drabble-y. Sometimes disjointed, or random. But that's me trying to match Gadreel's mindset. The glimpses of important things in the middle of a lot of mediocrity. *shrug*


End file.
